Read the beginning of the Introduction from In Search of Powder: A Story of America's Disappearing Ski Bum by Jeremy Evans, Foreword by Glen Plake:

"The idea for this book entered my mind on a rainy November day along Interstate 5 in Portland, Oregon. I was stuck in traffic. I was rarely stuck in traffic in Lake Tahoe, where I lived for three years before moving to the Pacific Northwest. Now instead of counting how many days I went snowboarding, I kept track of my daily commutes. Some afternoons it took me almost two hours to drive the 8.2 miles from my downtown apartment to work. I was on a similar pace on that rainy November day when something occurred to me.

I was inching toward my desk, not looking forward to the day. A case of the Mondays, I guess, only it was Wednesday. A curtain of heavy mist hung from an overcast sky, spraying my car with the precision of a thumbed garden hose. The mist stopped and the moisture covering my car separated. Tiny puddles formed on the hood, jiggling as my car idled. Then it was time to proceed. I released the brakes, the tires rolled one rotation, and I applied the brakes. An endless canvas of red lights appeared before me. Most of my commutes developed like this, but I found solace in being an ankle-pivoting zombie. It gave me an opportunity to dream, either about being somewhere else or being somebody else.

I was pretty sure the people inside the cars surrounding me weren’t having similar thoughts, for they were always too intent on weaving in and out of lanes, throwing their hands in the air, and yelling at others who were weaving in and out of lanes, throwing their hands in the air, and yelling at others who were weaving . . . for what reason? So they could get home quicker and sit on the couch sooner? So they could wake up the next morning, practice the same skills by rushing to a job they didn’t like, earn a paycheck they did like, and then spend that money during their only two weeks of vacation each year? Is this what life has been reduced to? Is this the new American Dream? No, I decided, it’s the mantra of the living dead, a mantra followed by dutiful products of the Great American Capitalistic Machine, and I was one of them."